


in short shallow gasps

by anthxnyjcrxwley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale snatched me by the throat and wouldn't let go, Aziraphale thinks a Lot, He's a bit of a bastard but he's mostly meant well, I USE THE WORD SOFT A MILLION TIMES I'M SORRY BUT IT'S AZIRAPHALE'S THOUGHTS, M/M, South Downs vacation, past warrior!Aziraphale, this started out as a 1k study of a moment in time and then it devolved into this mess, trains of thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 08:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19786954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthxnyjcrxwley/pseuds/anthxnyjcrxwley
Summary: The bird takes off in a mess of wings and Aziraphale hides his smile behind a sip of his red wine, hand not holding the glass braced against the ground for him to lean on.“Oh, let him have it. It’s not as if we’ll be eating those.” Aziraphale murmurs, afterwards, and Crowley’s eyes crack open just a bit, slivers of gold behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses.“Then put it to the side at least.” Comes a slightly disgruntled reply and Aziraphale thinks again - soft.Crowley always had been soft.---Aziraphale Thinks A Lot.





	in short shallow gasps

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story for the Good Omens fandom! Go easy on me, I haven't written in a long time. 
> 
> Title and italicized lyrics come from All This And Heaven Too by Florence + The Machine - I listened to it and Aziraphale grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. 
> 
> I use the word soft over thirty times in this fic - I'd say I'm sorry, but Aizraphale loves that word.

_But with all my education_

_I can't seem to commend it_

_And the words are all escaping me_

_And coming back all damaged_

Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, rather likes to think he _has_ become soft. 

It’s perhaps not the strangest thing the angel’s ever been proud of accomplishing - making a demon laugh isn’t exactly the peak of angelic existence, or so most angels might say. 

That being said, he _is_ proud of that fact. Aziraphale wasn’t always soft - no, Aziraphale had led battles. He had led a battalion against an enemy he didn’t fully understand, had lifted a flaming sword against what used to be his own people. 

He’ll never quite forgive himself for that. After all, Crowley had been on the other side somewhere, with another name, another set of wings, another weapon. Sometimes, when Crowley hisses at him, hackles raised, reminding him that he is a _demon_ and therefore _couldn’t possibly be nice_ Aziraphale wishes he could have known him before the war. Could have known him before the Great Fall. Things might have been different-- 

And yet that softness that has gathered inside him tends to insist that it should have never gone any other way, that they were meant to be as they were. 

After all, it isn’t as if he could imagine Crowley any other way. Wouldn’t _want_ to.

Crowley was wonderful as he was, you see, and perhaps always had been. The problem with it, however, was that Aziraphale has been trying to catch up for say… six thousand years? 

Learning to be soft wasn’t _easy_ . To unlearn all he had been told, to defy orders-- It had been _hard_ and yet, in moments like these-- 

They were on a picnic. 

A brave house sparrow had been inching closer and closer to them as they lounged. Rather, Crowley lounged, spread out across the blanket, looking rather pleased with himself. His eyes were closed and if Aziraphale had to name the scene, he’d say Crowley was sunbathing in this new fair weather they’d been having as of late after the Not-So-End-Of-The-World. (He suspected that had to do with one Adam Young.)

His black jacket had been abandoned by their picnic basket - something that Aziraphale had insisted upon. Crowley had folded easily. They’d both always liked an aesthetic, even if wildly different ones. 

The last bits of their meal were littering the bottom of a couple of white plates and seeming to commit to his thievery the house sparrow darts past them both to snatch the largest crumb. 

Crowley makes a low noise in his throat at the new presence so close to his space - how long had Aziraphale been so lucky and had not realized? Crowley was not the sort to let anything into his space he did not like and yet always had allowed Aziraphale close. The bird takes off in a mess of wings and Aziraphale hides his smile behind a sip of his red wine, hand not holding the glass braced against the ground for him to lean on. 

“Oh, let him have it. It’s not as if _we’ll_ be eating those.” Aziraphale murmurs, afterwards, and Crowley’s eyes crack open just a bit, slivers of gold behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. 

“Then put it to the side at least.” Comes a slightly disgruntled reply and Aziraphale thinks again - _soft_. 

Crowley always had been soft. 

For all his grumbling and hissing and _insistence_ , he _was_ soft. And kind, even. 

The universe had been cruel to him for so long and in so many ways. Aziraphale himself, too, had been cruel at times. He wouldn’t deny that. Couldn’t. His nature had not been soft. It was nurtured to be that way and even still, at times, a bit of that stoniness could be glimpsed. 

Crowley had always been the one so helpless in the face of injustice and tragedy. 

_This can’t really be Her Plan!_ Aziraphale would never forget the true anguish in the demon’s voice as they’d watched the flood, watched children washed away. Crowley had lifted a trembling hand as if to reach for them, red curls beaten back by wind and rain, and for centuries after that Aziraphale had the image burned into his mind. 

How could She have possibly cast him out? 

It was a thought that _scared_ Aziraphale. It had sent him careening away from the demon, avoiding his presence. 

Aziraphale had kept nurturing that softness, though, and it sought out other softness in return. 

It came, at first, in stories. Back then, the world wasn’t quite so wide you see. 

Hiding with flaming hair and golden serpentine eyes was not so easy. 

Stories spread of Crowley, rumors. Snake eyes and a grin. Trades. They seemed afraid of him and yet the _stories_. 

_I showed him the world_. It haunts Aziraphale. 

So they crash into each other - again and again. Softness seeking softness. Thousands of years. Waves lapping at the shore and retreating.

Aziraphale lifts the plate and sets it in the far corner of their blanket, watches the house sparrow tip its head this way and that from the branch it’d retreated to. 

“So.” Aziraphale starts, sips from his wine once more, and then sits up properly. He reaches out a hand to place the empty bottle back into their basket, the movement seeming to draw Crowley’s attention. His eyes have opened now, fully, behind the lenses. “I have been thinking--” 

“Oh! Have you now? How _dangerous_ .” Crowley’s lips tug into a smile - mostly teasing with a slight edge that Aziraphale had taken _so_ long to understand. 

“Hush.” Aziraphale says, primly. “I think we should go on vacation.” 

“Vacation?” The reply wasn’t quite what he’d hoped - a bit flat. Surprised. 

“Quite. Somewhere… away. Not that I don’t enjoy London, I simply mean that it would be nice to get away for a bit. After all, we’ve both got no obligations now, not even to balance ourselves--” 

“And where away were you thinking, angel?” A sharp brow lifts above those sunglasses as Crowley interrupts. He wants to pluck them off of the demon’s face - to see him properly, without a shield. 

“South Downs.” Aziraphale admits, without much preamble. It’s been six thousand years and maybe, finally, Aziraphale feels like he’s caught up enough to take, as they say, the leap of faith. “I’ve been looking at cottages there.”  
  
A noise. Interest? Complaint? Aziraphale can’t quite tell. “South Downs.” 

“Yes, dear boy. Did you fall asleep? You seem a bit slow.” There’s a bit of a tease hidden in there, a bit of concern. An urge to stroke fingers through red hair, to brush a thumb over a temple. He doesn’t. 

The house sparrow lands on the plate and snatches up a few crumbs. 

“Shut up.” Crowley pushes himself up to sit, bracing himself with palms flat on the blanket. “A vacation in a cottage. Just us?” He sounds… 

Aziraphale goes soft around the edges again. It’s so easy to when Crowley looks at him like _that_. It always has been and he swallows thickly, biting the inside of his cheek. It’s grounding. 

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale answers after a few moments. “I thought it would be nice.” 

Silence sits heavy between them. 

_You go too fast for me, Crowley_ . It’s a memory that makes him look away from golden eyes, unable to hold their gaze. He had been so cruel - he’d thought it necessary at the time. And perhaps it was. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t _wanted_ to go with him. It wasn’t in their grasp. 

There had been sides and reports and _fear_. 

So much fear. Fear that Crowley might never meet him again. Fear that Aziraphale might be called on suspicions. Selfish fear. 

Aziraphale clears his throat gently, eyes travelling the park. 

The brave house sparrow chirps. Aziraphale feels suddenly raw, as if his skin had been peeled back. 

“I’m sure you’re aware I’m a bit selfish by now.” Aziraphale points out, softly, without meeting that golden gaze. “And I-- I wanted--” 

The words escape him. He wants more than anything to show Crowley the softness he saw in the demon, the softness that he had shared so willingly, the softness that Aziraphale had learned from him. He can feel Crowley’s stare burning into the side of his face and he _can’t_ look at him. 

“It isn’t that I didn’t want to go with you, Crowley.” _Every time you’ve asked_. He feels like he’s still not saying the right words. “But Alpha Centauri?” He shakes his head just a bit. “Earth is--” A stilted pause. “Earth is our home, dear. I couldn’t run away and watch it be destroyed. Wine, crepes, my books, your plants, my shop, your car-- If I didn’t save those things, what could I share with you? What had I been protecting for so long?” 

There’s a soft inhale. 

“For us?” Comes the question. It sounds odd, small and quiet in Crowley’s mouth. The last _s_ drags a bit, as if he’d forgotten to control the hiss. “You wanted to save the world for _us_?” 

Aziraphale looks at him, finally. Really looks. 

Wrecked. 

Crowley looks wrecked and Aziraphale swallows. He tips his head, blinking slowly at him. 

“Of course.” It’s a simple answer. It’s the only answer. He thinks, sometime after the Ark, that he had been truly doomed. It’s just taken so many centuries to realize it, to give bit by bit and to hope that it didn’t tear them both apart to do so. 

Crowley turns his head away, eyes focusing - presumably - on some far point across the park. 

“We needn’t go if you don’t want to.” Aziraphale’s voice is _soft_. Because he knows. He’s pushing some line they’d drawn in the sand, some line that Aziraphale before now had been unable to cross. Too much, perhaps, too much softness all at once. 

“I didn’t say that.” Crowley’s voice is a bit thick and Aziraphale wants to pull him close. He doesn’t. 

Yet. 

And that’s another thing that he’s learned about Crowley. 

He rarely says what he really means. He doesn’t necessarily lie so much as he avoids a subject, or says something that has a meaning behind it but is not upfront. 

_Run away with me_. 

Aziraphale may be dense, but even he - in that moment - had seen the desperation. 

He’d like to think he knew Crowley, which is why he’d brought it up at all in the first place. 

They pack the car two weeks later. 

Without Heaven and Hell watching them, miracles come easy. The Bentley has enough space for Aziraphale’s large suitcase - mostly books as he _does_ intend to read at _some point_ . Crowley complains a bit - _thought it was vacation, angel_ \- but he’s loose and gentle around the edges. 

Aziraphale finds that when the roads open up, when there’s less people crammed in such small spaces in such dangerous machinery, he’s slightly less nervous about Crowley’s driving. 

Always so fast - but Crowley had always taken to change. How did they say? A duck to water? Always changing his looks, always keeping up with the times, always moving forward-- 

Aziraphale might have envied him more if it didn’t seem so exhausting. He wonders, at times, if that was why Crowley indulged in sleep so often. 

It seems odd that he would wait so long for Aziraphale. Truly. The angel still can’t quite wrap his head around it and he knows that he stares. 

The only real indication that Crowley notices is the tightening of his hands on the wheel, knuckles white. 

“Pull over.” Aziraphale says, suddenly, and Crowley startles. The Bentley swerves to the side of the road, rolling to a quick stop. The angel smiles. 

Aziraphale pushes open his door and climbs out - one hand keeping the door propped in place and the other resting on the roof of the Bentley. The sea breeze ruffles his hair and he breathes deeply. Yes, this is what he’d needed. He ducks his head to look back into the car at a disgruntled demon. “Come now. I wanted to see the beach.” 

Crowley folds. He usually does and with a slightly irritated noise he opens his door and unfolds his long limbs. Aziraphale watches because he can. 

The angel closes his door and steps around the car to start picking his way down the incline towards the beach. Somewhere, in another plane, his wings itch to unfurl and catch the breeze. He stamps down the urge, eyes trailing over the ocean waves. 

Crowley joins him a few moments later, grumbling under his breath about _giving him a heart attack_ , standing beside him as they had once long ago, looking over the Earth much like this. Aziraphale glances at him from the corner of his eye. 

“I quite miss your long hair.” Aziraphale informed, “Even to your shoulders. I always thought it suited you.” He turns to look at the demon. 

“Too much maintenance.” Crowley says, dismissively, but he’s shifted a little, body turned towards Aziraphale slightly. 

“Mm. Even so.” Aziraphale says and then, in a movement quicker than his soft body might suggest he could pull off, he reaches out and plucks the sunglasses off of Crowley’s face. 

Immediately the demon hisses, hackles rising on instinct. There’s a look of surprise and then a sour glare trained on him and Aziraphale hums gently - “There you are.” And it comes out quieter than he’d intended. It’s just… Crowley’s eyes have always been so beautiful and uniquely him. Catching a bit of sun peeking through the clouds, well. Aziraphale doesn’t think he can be blamed for being tempted so easily. Not that he has to worry about giving in these days. 

Crowley’s golden eyes roll his gaze away, shoulders hunching up towards his ears. Aziraphale folds the sunglasses up, sliding them into his pocket. He could have miracled them away, but he thought that maybe he ought to keep them close in case it was all too much. In case he had to let Crowley hide - not that he’d ever been supremely good at it. 

He needs to say something. 

Aziraphale’s not sure where to start, though. How does he put it all into words that won’t sound cruel? How does he let Crowley _know_? 

Crowley won’t look at him, gaze focused on the horizon and Aziraphale takes a step closer. Another. Their sides almost brush. 

Crowley’s never been particularly warm. Cold-blooded, he supposes, another thing left over from the snake. It doesn’t mean that the demon doesn’t seek out warmth, though, and he’d taken to sunbathing in Aziraphale’s shop. The large front window had miraculously spawned a window seat, books piled all around with just enough space for Crowley to slip past and curl up in the sunlight. 

He’s not warm. Aziraphale can’t feel him, but Crowley has angled himself back towards Aziraphale again - something unconscious, the angel’s sure. 

“Are we just going to--” Crowley’s annoyed question gets garbled towards the end, breath huffing out like he’d been knocked into a wall. 

Aziraphale had slipped his hand into the demon’s, twining their fingers before he could jerk away, squeezing it gently. He’s not stopped looking. 

“Dear.” Aziraphale starts. 

“Whwsgh?” Crowley sounds like he’d meant to ask _what_ , but it had gotten caught up somewhere along the way. Aziraphale shouldn’t find it as endearing as he did, but there were many things he shouldn’t find endearing about the demon that he always had. (And, given his track history, always would.) 

“You’ve been very patient with me.” Aziraphale murmurs, earnest. _Soft._

“No--” Crowley starts, his eyes wide, turning to fully face Aziraphale. He doesn’t pull his hand away so Aziraphale presses on. 

“Yes. You really have.” Aziraphale reaches out his other hand, bringing their hands together, clasping Crowley’s between them. “So very patient. And it’s taken me a very long time to catch up.” He pauses to take a breath - a breath he doesn’t need, but Crowley always makes him feel like he does. 

“Aziraphale--” Crowley’s voice wavers, shaken. Aziraphale shakes his head because he thinks he needs to say this - however it comes out, it must. 

“But if you’d still have me, I’d like--” Aziraphale would like so many things. He pauses, stilted, searches wide golden eyes. “Well, I’d like very much to be with you, my dear. I’ve been trying to figure out the words, but they’re rather hard to come by. I think I’ve come to understand what the poets meant when they said it was hard to capture.” 

Crowley pulls his hands away. 

It was only a moment - just one - but Aziraphale feels his heart stop. There was the thought to flee, to take it all back, to hide for a couple centuries and pretend he’d never done a thing. 

Those hands cup his cheeks, though, and Aziraphale lets out the breath he had been holding. 

“Aziraphale.” The voice is firm this time, even if pink has spread across high cheekbones. “It was never about waiting. I wasn’t--” The words seem to escape him, too, and Aziraphale hums, lifts his hands to cup the ones on his cheeks. 

“I love you.” Crowley says, and Aziraphale smiles small and tender.  
  
“I know.” Aziraphale murmurs, softly, and turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of a chilled hand. Perhaps they should get him out of the wind. “I love you, too. Of course I do.” His voice is a small and fragile thing between them. 

Crowley makes this helpless sound in the very back of his throat - he doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’d made it - and tips forward as if someone had cut puppet strings. His forehead bumps Aziraphale’s a little roughly and all Aziraphale can do is huff a soft laugh. He turns his head slightly and their noses brush. It’s a soft touch, so soft that it nearly tickles. 

The kiss is nearly as soft, hardly a kiss at all, and Aziraphale’s breath is the one that stutters this time. His lips twitch up into a crooked smile. 

“I’d certainly hoped so. After all, the cottage only has one bed.” Aziraphale chuckled and was rewarded with an undignified squawk from Crowley. 

Later - much later - after they’ve unpacked, had dinner, shared some wine and stories, after Crowley curls into his side on the couch like it was something they had always done, Aziraphale will take him to bed. 

They don’t plan on it, but at some point they tangle together and they both _can’t shut up_. 

They talk so much, but all the words have the same meaning - _I love you, I love you, I love you._

It’s a tangle of black and white feathers - soft voices and even softer touches. 

Softness seeking softness.

It’s all _soft._

_So I was screaming out a language_

_That I never knew existed before_


End file.
